My Name Is Venus Black(71)

She would have kicked him out on his ass. That day, as Venus hysterically sobbed over the perfectly drilled hole in the knotty pine, Inez could already see herself confronting Ray.

But for God’s sake! She needed time to come to terms, to figure out what to do next, to talk to someone. You can’t process such a monstrous truth in one afternoon. Venus didn’t even give her one day!



This was the heart of her defense—what she screamed at Venus in her mind but would never say to her face: You didn’t give me enough time! You didn’t wait for me to figure out how to handle it! You should never have taken my immediate reaction as my true and entire and timeless last word!

Now Inez knows better. Never assume you can take back anything. Never assume you have time to face facts later. And never underestimate the power of a parent’s betrayal.

As Inez moves on to Venus’s bathroom, the sight of the pink bottle of Love’s Baby Soft perfume makes her want to rush back upstairs and guzzle the rest of that bottle of wine. She doesn’t have to open the bottle or spray a drop in order to smell Venus—or to imagine Ray ogling her innocent daughter.

Somewhere deep in her little-girl heart, Venus had known it, hadn’t she? And no wonder she’d hated Ray so much all those years. And then to hear the prosecutor archly point out, “But there’s no proof he even touched her. You can’t claim sexual abuse as a mitigating factor if she was only peeped at.”

Only peeped at?

The memory of his disdain fills Inez with rage now. But at the time, it had filled her with something much more like relief. She did not take up Venus’s defense. She did not scream at the top of her lungs that of course voyeurism is sexual abuse. She had left that to others, then and since.

Now, as Inez stands on Venus’s bed to take down the mobile of planets, she sees herself emptying her daughter’s sky of dreams, and she sees, coming down with them, her last defense against the truth: Worse than not sticking up for Venus is the reason she refused. At the time, she’d been desperate to minimize what Ray did—what she allowed to happen—because it lessened her own awful guilt. And it kept her from feeling like she’d been part of a dirty secret.



How could she have been so selfish?

She realizes she is sobbing. Why had she thought she could get through this cleanup without a major breakdown? If only she had taken that guy’s phone number, she could have canceled this stupid showing. She could have run from the room. Could have forgotten about moving, and never opened the basement door again.

Suddenly, the thought of calling Shirley and Marianne and begging them to do this for her sounds genius. Of course this is too much for any mother! Of course she can’t bear it!

But, in the end, love makes her stay.





Tony arrives at the house a few minutes early. It’s begun to rain. He parks his truck right behind a red Honda. He is nervous.

He has carefully rehearsed how he hopes this conversation will unfold. He’s hoping Inez is not suspicious or closemouthed. He climbs the few steps to the front door and knocks. He’d rather not ring the bell.

He’s about to knock again when she answers. He’s surprised that she’s so pretty. Long black hair, a narrow sculpted face. She’s thin, seems fragile, and it looks like she’s been crying. What had Tony been expecting?

A woman who looked like she would marry an abuser and raise a homicidal daughter.

“Are you here for the house?” she asks. Her voice is fairly low, like maybe she’s a smoker.

“Yes,” Tony says, extending his hand. “I’m Tony.”

She shakes his hand very lightly. Her small hands remind him of Leo’s hands. He’s startled by the idea that he’s looking at Leo’s mother.

“Come on in,” she says, standing back.

Upon entering the house’s foyer, Tony notices a giant photograph of a waterfall in the woods covering one small wall. He follows her down a single step into the living room. He looks around him. It’s nice, but plain. The walls are pale yellow, and there’s some kind of rust-colored flower border that runs along the wall just below the ceiling. A small fireplace sits on the west wall. A burgundy plaid living room set looks a bit tired. Then he spots a picture of Leo on an end table. It is so obviously Leo that Tony’s throat catches. Shit. Fuck. There goes his last hope of being wrong.



He looks away quickly. “You’ve got nice light in here,” he says.

“Thanks.” She hesitates, seeming uncertain. “Do you want me to just let you wander around, or do you want a tour?”

“I’d love a tour,” he says. He’d normally rather snoop alone, but he’s here to learn what he can about this woman.

She smiles, and he sees that her top teeth are slightly crooked. “Well, this is the living room. Obviously.” She walks through it, past a hallway to the right, into a small alcove that is a dining area and past it to a galley kitchen. “This is the kitchen,” she says, almost apologetic.

Tony goes over to the bank of windows on the other side of the dining-room table and looks out. He turns back to face her. “How’s the neighborhood?” he asks. “Any trouble?”

She flinches, and Tony is almost sorry for the question.

“No,” she says. “The neighbors are good.”